We Start And End Here
by AsianScaper
Summary: Ch. 3: The Interpol makes an appearance and offers Pepa something she cannot refuse.
1. Chapter 1

Title: We Start And End Here

Author: Asianscaper ( lj frogfrizz)

Pairing: Pepa/SilviaRating: PG

Warning: Angst, AU

Summary: In the aftermath of Silvia's death, Pepa finds solace in family.

Disclaimer: This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Author's Notes: De-lurking! I was introduced to this pairing a week ago, I've watched everything on YouTube and struggled through the wedding. This is my form of therapy, which I wanted to share with you guys (even if it's grief-ridden). I don't think I'll ever get over what happened. This is dedicated to the community for being awesome (all the fic, the fansubs, the vids, the art, etc.). It may or may not turn into a series since tiny plot bunnies were hatching all throughout the writing of this. Let me know if you want to see more. Unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,_  
_And spent my little life without a thought,_  
_And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,_  
_Should think of me, who never thought of him._  
~René Francois Regnier

* * *

I have never been so divided, every part of me thrown out into the sea like shattered stars, splayed across the sky like thousands of painful piercings.

And I know that this is the long night. The groaning darkness that I see when I close my eyes during the day. The deep nightmare of black when I enter the threshold of our house. The murky waters that crawl up my knees as I touch the couch, the chairs of our dining room, the mantle of our fireplace, the all-too-neat covers of our bed.

I've been sleeping at the couch, Peliroja. I haven't touched the quilts you've bought for us when we tried to comfort our niece. Nor have I forgotten that day, tucking every memory before and after. Now all I have are secret compartments deep in my heart that I open in the privacy of my sorrow.

There is a terrible aching, an aching that stretches outwards from somewhere below my chest, threatening to tumble outwards from my eyes, my mouth, my throat. It has robbed me of mobility, of my urge to walk or rouse.

I know Paco is worried because he visits every day, knocking at our door tentatively after he has left the precinct. When he enters, his eyes are nervous as he pulls in the details of our home. He is reverent when he fixes me a meal, touching the pots and the pans as though they were your arms or your fingers, his words gentle and cautious as though you were there between the woodwork, settled in the creases of brick and mortar and stone.

I hear the click of the stove as he finishes and then he would join me at the table, pushing a plate of hot food that I can't see, or taste or even smell.

With the sun setting and the lamps easing us into twilight, the scene is overlaid with a fragile, almost iridescent film. It is glazed with the filaments of your touch, your laughter, your matter-of-fact voice as you tell me that the paella you've just made is your father's recipe. I grab your hips, my fingers seeking the inviting break between your shirt and your jeans. Just as quickly, the scene shatters and I slam back into the empty house, the chair that we bought, the table we had almost argued over. I can barely see Paco from across me, my vision shrouded with tears.

Paco stares hard as though waiting to see if I would come out. He doesn't wait for longer than what is necessary; instead, he brings Paco to his sister, sighing heavily as he picks up a fork, nabs a sliver of meat and puts the utensil in my hand.

"Eat, Pepa," he says, lifting my hand with his.

My eyes flicker to him. As though seeing him for the first time, I smile and bring my hand to his face. I kiss him on the cheek

Then the fingers on his neck quiver and I choke out my words in a helpless rush as I let him go, "I can't."

He bites his lip as though to hold his tears at bay; his eyes are watery and with them I know that he is secretly telling me to leave this place: the house, the massive gestures of grief, the persistent pattering from one memory to another as I savor and then realize with horror that _everything_ has changed.

"Please Pepa. Just three spoon-fuls this time," he whispers.

I swallow, I nod. I put the food in my mouth because I love him, my brother.

"You're welcome to stay with me," he says.

"I know."

"Pepa…"

I breathe deeply. "No. Not yet. My place is here."

He breaks his gaze, looking sideways. He rubs his nose and blinks furiously as he tries hard to keep the tears from falling.

* * *

I'm doing my reports, struggling like I'm muddling through a bog, my fingers sinking into the letters of my computer and the rest of me in slow motion. I'm bent over like a ghost, the light of the screen washing over my face, a limpid reminder that the day has ended and that I am, once again, very much alone. That all the lights in my life have been artificial, illusory ever since…that day.

It's a realization that does not go unnoticed and I feel my cheeks turn wet, then sticky as the tears dry on my face. Still, my fingers stretch over the keyboard and in every stroke, a dull pain tells me that everything I write, everything I do seems empty without you.

I force myself to keep typing. The report is due tomorrow and with the case closed, I should be celebrating. With you.

Oh, my Peliroja.

"Inspector Miranda-Castro."

The rough voice of your father breaks the silence like thunder. I nearly jump out of my skin, taking hold of the gun in its holster draped over my seat.

"Don Lorenzo," I acknowledge as he emerges from the shadows, relaxing considerably.

Despite his tone, his presence is tender like the comfort of a small flame in a dark, empty cave. But like a small flame, his presence glimmers and fades into the cold. I squint as he flips the switch to the light in the foyer and glances with disapproval across the twilit house.

"You're going to destroy your eyes." I know he is talking of something else as grabs a chair and places it gruffly beside me.

He has taken the liberty of borrowing the house's keys from Paco. He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them beside the humming monitor. As he does so, he places a kiss on my forehead before his body settles into the chair.

"I wanted that on my desk yesterday," he says, gesturing to the report with his chin.

"Don Lorenzo…"

He raises a hand to stop me from speaking. "I brought some tapas from the tavern."

"Leo," I managed to say, my smile faltering into the half-grimace associated with mentioning anyone who reminds me of you.

"She told me to bring them to you. I left them in the kitchen. I'm surprised you didn't notice me coming in." His tone is almost reproachful but it is something I'm used to. By now I've realized that it is his way of telling me that I am important enough for him to fuss over.

"I haven't been…"

"Yourself," he interjects.

He eyes me up and down, nearly scoffs. He has seen me dress like a punk but I doubt he has ever seen me so appallingly defeated in a simple shirt and draw-string pants. But despite his gruffness, his gestures are gentle and awkward like a giant careful with his surroundings for fear of destroying them or offending its inhabitants.

"Pepa, you can't keep living like this."

"Like what?" I laugh derisively.

He chooses to shrug, his gaze about to tip over to one of righteous anger. But after a few seconds of looking at me, of being reminded that this lady was a Castro inasmuch as a Miranda, his cheeks move into a half-smile and he hides his face in his palm.

"I got a call from Interpol," he began, peering at me intently.

Indeed, from all the murkiness of the days before, this bit of news is like a shot of adrenaline and I could feel my ears prickle in curiosity. My silence and the fact that I've stopped typing signal him to continue.

"They're asking for you." He raises his hands as I look at him in inquiry. "I have no idea why. It seems as though they picked up your file, liked what they saw and now they want to meet you."

"They?"

"They were a pair," he intones in a way that tells me I should have guessed that bit. "They came by the precinct just this morning, which is why I paid you a personal visit. An Agent Lilia Renatus and an Agent Carlos Caton."

"Sounds like an odd pair," I try to joke.

He snorts but he knows that this is the first time I seem interested in police work since…that day.

In the few seconds that he has mentioned the International Criminal Police Organization, I feel some of the cobwebs that have been slowing my insides drift apart. I continue, "Do you want me to come to the precinct tomorrow?"

"No, they'll visit you here tomorrow morning."

I blink in surprise. "What?"

"The Interpol wants to keep this quiet." He rubs his chin in thought. His body language tells me that he is cautious of our visitors and at the same time, hopeful that their visit would bring much needed expertise which the precinct does not have. "I'm told it has something to do with the terrorist threats back in Italy. Unfortunately for San Antonio, they've traced some of the perpetrators here. I've been advised by the higher-ups to give them what they want." At the mention of authority, he looks at me pointedly, "You must know cariño, that there are some forces in this world that I can't defy."

"Good on you, Don Lorenzo," I tease.

He waves my words away, his perpetual frown easing into an expression of relief as he realizes that my humor has not left me. "They seemed very anxious to speak with you and would've come here tonight if I had advised them otherwise. I wanted to make sure you were prepared for them before they came to your home."

I am grateful for the warning and I tip my head to him to acknowledge his thoughtfulness.

With that, he stands abruptly, working his way to the kitchen. He flips the switches as he goes like an old god drifting from one dark room to another with the sun in his hands. The house has never been this bright since you walked out the door for the very last time but I am comforted rather than dismayed and your father once more uplifts when he arrives with my favorite box of tapas.

Just like the ones you used to bring me during a stake-out or when we were both too lazy to cook, those little packets of temporary bliss that acted as preambles for conversation, love-making or even quarrels. I feel my guts wrench and my appetite weaken.

As though I could physically separate myself from the memory, I breathe deeply, turning back to my report.

"None of that, cariño," Don Lorenzo scolds, pulling at my shoulder as he opens the box with flair and shoves one delicious-looking snack in my hand. He shoots daggers with his eyes. "Eat."

Your father is more effective than Paco ever will be when it comes to forcing food into my stomach. Maybe it's the way he does it firmly as you would. The way he softens only infinitesimally when he knows that I am fed, the way he stands up to fetch me a tall glass of water even before I think to ask for one. Like he is now, you were always so attentive, so wed to details, so very careful when you leaned forward to kiss my forehead as I ravaged through three of these snacks in mere seconds.

"Careful, Pepa. You'll choke." It is his voice against my forehead not yours and suddenly, I'm missing you even more. I put the piece of bread down, wiping at the sides of my lips as I sense misery stalking me from behind. He reaches down and wipes my cheek.

"No more crying, yes?" he pleads.

I force a smile, my mouth still full and I chew more slowly this time.

The silence is companionable and we look at each other as I finish the tapas one by one. He nods every time I put one to my mouth, perhaps secretly delighted that his daughter-in-law is eating under his watch. I can see the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as though in silent laughter.

The minutes pass and the furtive glances he has been giving my computer culminate in him turning it off. He ignores my protests, roughly silencing me with numerous Sssht!'s. Once reassured by the blankness of the screen, he stands to make himself some coffee but not before he refills my glass with more water. The crying has always left me thirsty and he seems to know the motions of grief well enough to watch over my own thirst.

With that, I am reminded that this man has probably lost more than I have. No human being should ever live to see the day that he has lost both his wife and his daughter.

Despite the tiredness of being a Commissioner, the echoing emptiness of his house, he still comes to our home and thinks of me. He deserves more than just my heartache. I steady my resolve and down the rest of the food.

He does not leave until I finish the whole box, or even after he tucks me in at the couch that I've designated as my bed. He pulls the covers over me as I fold into myself and contemplate another long, noiseless night. There, as I fall asleep and lay my worries at his feet, he watches me from a chair and sings a low lullaby that I'm sure he has sung to you before.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Title: We Start And End Here: Part 2

Author: AsianScaper (lj user "frogfrizz")

Pairing: Pepa/Silvia

Rating: M for adult themes

Warning: Angst, AU

Summary: Before the Interpol arrives, Don Lorenzo takes the time to take care of his daughter-in-law.

Disclaimer: This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Author's Notes: Once again, this is unbeta'ed so all mistakes are mine. I hope you guys enjoy this and the direction I'm taking, whatever that may be (it's a secret!). Feedback is appreciated, of course! Cheers!

* * *

_The memory of you emerges from the night around me._

_The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea._

~Pablo Neruda's "A Song of Despair"

* * *

I open my eyes and my senses emerge. I smell breakfast wafting from our kitchen and for an instant I believe that the clatter of pans have been borrowed from a scene a few months before. I do not dare stand and for a moment, I lie paralyzed at the couch, focusing on the ceiling where the paint had dried while we said our wedding vows in some far away province that I dare not visit even in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pull the blanket over my head as though I can keep the light at bay because as it falls on our home, it also reveals to me all the empty spaces where you used to walk. There is a constant whisper here. It sighs into my ear, and I know that if it were an image, then her hair would be auburn and her smile, beauty beyond words.

And then the thought occurs. It is inevitable that I leave. There is no letting go of you, not yet, but the Pepa who has lived so freely and so gaily, that Pepa who is still entombed in her gray world, knows that the living do not live for the dead.

So, I force myself to accept that it is not you in the kitchen. This is an act I have to repeat over and over and over until I have written across all the lines that still iterate, iSilvia is alive/i.

Slowly, viscerally, I am convinced; I know that the presence isn't you because his steps are heavy and the noise precludes someone with your grace and lightness. The passion is the same; I hear a curse as he tries to work the toaster, the demanding push and pull at our refrigerator as he retrieves the jam, and then the bump of one cabinet door against another as he forces the cutlery and plates and glasses from their hiding places.

He finishes and the floorboards creak as he makes his way to the living area, puts his burden on the coffee table, and pulls the blanket from my face.

"Wake up, sleepy-head," Don Lorenzo demands, a cup of café con leche mere inches from my face. "You have an appointment with fate."

"You stayed the night?" I ask, trying to sound affronted. I sit up and take the mug. I sip at his concoction and I am reminded that there are certain skills you have inherited from your father, coffee-making notwithstanding.

He looks pointedly at me. "How could I not."

"You may be my father-in-law but I'm not a child," I say, the defiance lost after a few words.

He raises a brow, his forehead creasing. "Oh but you iare/i child, Pepa Miranda-Castro and don't tell me otherwise." He nods towards breakfast. "Finish that, and get dressed. Interpol will be here in an hour and I want you to give them a good impression. It won't do if they think the precinct is," he waves his hand, "inept."

"Giving a good impression isn't something I'm very good at," I reply, half-smiling into my mug.

"They would probably be expecting it anyway. But you can't blame a man for trying."

He wolfs down his breakfast, watching me sternly as I eat half of what he has prepared. When I finally give up on my second piece of toast, he stands up quickly and takes my arm.

"I'll leave for the precinct when you're ready," he says gruffly, pulling me to the bath in the bedroom.

"There's no other way I'm going to be rid of you, is there?"

"No," he replies, dead-pan.

We avoid the sight of the bed and we both skirt around it like thieves afraid of setting off a trap. It is immaculately untouched, the pillows are propped for the pleasure of two brides and the quilt is bright. I am certain Don Lorenzo recognizes his daughter's touch in everything: from the bed, to the curtains, to the color of the room, to the designer furniture you've wrestled from the saleslady who gave you a price you didn't think fair.

He opens our closet, cringing for a moment as he recognizes some of your clothes. I panic momentarily, almost certain that he will cry because he puts a hand to his mouth.

The mask of the Commissioner snaps back on so quickly that I jump in surprise as he grabs a few garments that he has seen on me before. He turns from the sight like someone who has seen a ghost, I know I do every day, and then he shoves me and the outfit he has picked without ritual into the bathroom.

"Get ready," he says, his voice only slightly faltering. "I'll wait outside." With that, he closes the door and I hear him exit the bedroom in a hurry.

I glance blankly at our bathroom and it takes all my will to simply take a bath and not remember. But I _do_ remember and I weaken.

I step into the shower, touching the tiles with reverence, my mind suddenly awake as I remember both of us giggling one Saturday morning, tripping over each other's feet as we tussled gently into the confines of the shower. I draw all other memories from that one: how you would soften as I reached behind you to turn the water on. How you would smile against my mouth as I tasted honey on your lips and followed the scent of lust down your neck, your shoulders and along the delicate curves of your throat. How our bodies would be pressed so closely together, your sex worrying my thigh, your breasts soft against mine, the moan from deep within your throat throwing me off-center into a world governed by emotion. And then...the laughter that murmured into groans of delight.

All of these are superimposed within the cruel margins of a house without you.

My voice cuts insistently through the memory, "Pepa, stop."

My open palm slams against the Italian tiles. Tiles that we had spent days thinking about before a proper pattern that reminded you of gardens, laughter and quiet places was agreed upon.

Surprisingly, despite the bile rising to my throat as everything whirls viciously like a squall, the bath gives me clarity; I dress quicker, I comb my hair ably and regard the woman in the mirror with mild disinterest. Your image has always been parallel to mine; my face seems plain without it.

I flee the bathroom like a refugee.

Your father is waiting for me at the couch when I finish. He took care of the plates. The blanket I had tossed wearily aside is already folded and neatly stacked on the pillow. He lets me know tacitly that he disapproves of me sleeping on a couch that I can barely fit in. He stands up, looks me over once and holds both my shoulders.

"I know Silvia isn't here right now," he says. "But I am still here to tell you how beautiful you are and how right she was about you all along."

I feel an inevitable sting and he shushes me and rids of the tears by roughly interrupting the slow paths they take down my cheek. An understanding smile tugs at his lips. He cups my face and I know that he is trying to communicate strength through his hands and those eyes, which painfully emulate the color of yours.

"Be strong, cariño," he whispers, putting his forehead to mine.

I close my eyes. "I'll try."

Suddenly, there is an uneven knock on the door, the doorbell rings, and two voices belonging to a woman and a man argue over the business of who will buy the coffee this time around.

Don Lorenzo pats my cheek, grabs his coat and breathes deeply. I take my own sustained breath.

"I'm going ahead, alright? There's coffee in the kitchen and I kept it warm. Be a good host, Pepa."

There is another knock, another ring and I know by the insistence of my visitors and the earliness of the hour that it is the Interpol at my door.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Nor does the man who by the hearth at home__  
__Sits still, escape the doom that Fate decrees._  
~Aeschylus' "The Appointed Time"

* * *

It was a fine morning in Madrid. Lilia had insisted that her partner, Carlos Caton, keep the windows open for the ride to the Miranda-Castro home. The breeze stretched inside the car, gathered the staleness and replaced it with the fresh tang of spring. Thankfully, the rented car's stereo was silent and all she could hear was the howl of wind as they drove through the suburbs.

Lilia opened the file folder, re-reading the documents even as she had memorized just about everything there was to know about Maria Jose Miranda-Castro, known as Pepa to her friends and workmates.

"We're here," Carlos said, easing the car by the sidewalk.

It was a small yet inviting house made of stone, bought a mere six months ago and renovated with such care that more than a few pages had been dedicated to the couple's purchases. The house's proximity to the San Antonio precinct was less than an hour away and yet far enough from the expensive metro to retain a private overhang of trees, a small lawn, and a fence. It had been a patient, careful acquisition. The space had been meant to be lived in, to grow old in, to raise rowdy children in.

It must have been a happy home but now the house itself seemed to sink into the ground, hunched with a nameless weight as the lawn lay uncared for and the porch stood desolate without the polish of people going in and out. Idle leaves created haphazard footpaths from the fence to the door.

Lilia sighed at the sight, knowing full well what was in store for her partner and herself. The first visit was always the most difficult one.

"Coffee," she snapped.

Carlos wove his fingers into his hair, his face tight. "Google is my friend. There's a café a few blocks from here."

"You're buying."

"No, you are. I bought yesterday's coffee!"

Lilia had an image of the 42-inch plasma screen in their hotel, with Ronaldinho in the colors of Barcelona flying across like a triumphant eagle. All of it in HD. She could also remember Carlos' howls of despair.

"Ah," Lilia snidely remarked, "but your team lost yesterday's match."

"You're not going to peg the coffee on Real Madrid. If Iker hadn't been injured…"

And so their argument went as they made their way to the front door. They were interrupted with a jolt as someone exited, hard at the exterior as he pulled his coat on, his forehead creased. It was the Commissioner from the precinct and he glared at them both as a father would at two petulant children.

"Agent Renatus, and Agent Caton," he acknowledged, his face bent in a faux smile and his tone harsh. "Good morning."

They greeted him in unison but he simply waved them off with a heartless, "Bah!" before leaving just as quickly.

Lilia stared at his back as he hobbled to his car and drove away.

"Strange fellow," she heard Carlos say.

She was about to nod when they heard a voice. "He may be strange, but he _is_ my father-in-law."

Maria Jose Miranda-Castro stood there, her arms akimbo, long hair in waves as they fell around her shoulders. She was in jeans and a jacket, the dark leather belt around her waist hanging low as it contrasted with smooth, white skin beneath. This was she; the person Lilia and Carlos had been looking for, standing just as tall as Carlos and towering over Lilia with an almost relaxed air. She was beautiful, resplendent and something that the picture in her file could do no justice to.

She was made to walk the streets of Madrid in designer clothes, to be ogled and admired by men and women alike. That had been the case a few years ago and would have been the case now if she had not locked herself into her home, her beauty and irresistible charm so attractive that it pulled other people from their orbits and affixed them to hers.

A woman like Pepa had many friends. Her dossier boasted of nearly fifty lovers over the course of a decade and a half. What was even more intriguing: a good percentage had been retained as friends, kept at a distance but treated with genuine warmth. There was a long, telling lull when she was transferred to San Antonio, obviously taken by the woman who would be her wife.

Regardless, the document which recorded phone calls to her home for the past few months was splotched with unique caller ID's from several different men and women all over Europe, Spain especially. Perhaps they had called to console her, perhaps to win her back. All of the calls had been left unanswered. Lilia knew, because she had traced every single one.

Despite her aching loveliness and the cocksure way Pepa Miranda leaned against the door frame, something sad and lonely crept up her shoulders like strangling vines. There was tension around her eyes that may or may not have been a result of crying.

"Maria Jose?" Lilia ventured.

When the woman spoke, Lilia realized that it was not the beauty that had lured the women. It was the way she seemed so accessible as her lips turned up in a self-assured, broadly welcoming smile.

"Call me Pepa," Miranda said. She studied their suits, their trench coats and smirked as though she found their outfits amusing. Then, she shook her head and opened the door wider. "So, the Interpol?"

"Yes," Lilia replied, showing her their badges. "I'm Agent Lilia Renatus from the Lyon head office and this is Carlos Caton, from Madrid."

Pepa Miranda shrugged as though introductions were unnecessary, gesturing for them to come inside.

"I hope you guys aren't wasting my time," she was saying, herding them in like sheep into the living room. She fetched two cups of café con leche, or to Lilia, café latte which everyone knew was a common fixture in a European breakfast and something that nudged the general populace to wakefulness.

Carlos drank from his mug gratefully. Lilia stared at hers and wished that Pepa had gone easy on the milk.

"I suppose you've heard about the terrorist threats," Carlos began.

"Yes. No. Should I care?" Pepa grunted.

"You should," Lilia said, her voice attracting Pepa's intensely dark stare. "We've been given full jurisdiction by your superiors. You'll be leaving for an undisclosed province in three days."

"What for?"

"Training," Carlos said, sipping at his coffee and hiding his face.

"You're not being very forthcoming. Training in what?"

Lilia and Carlos exchanged looks. "We're told you've had Special Ops training. Your deputy in Seville recommended you for your work in high risk assignments and we've been informed of your success rate. We can't tell you anything more than that you've been assigned to our department and that you'll be undergoing training in a special facility."

"What makes you think I'm going to say yes?" Pepa said, incredulous, all the play gone from her voice. "And what is this all about, really?"

Carlos blinked. He had always been so transparent and Lilia cringed inwardly. Pepa caught on the interplay, her voice rising.

"What makes you think I'll leave San Antonio at a whim?"

"It's not a whim, Pepa."

"I don't care," the woman snapped, her eyes blazing. "You 'liaisons' don't know a thing about avoiding people's toes. You can't expect to just uproot me from my home, assign me to God-knows-where on a dangerous mission and expect me to say yes just because you're the Interpol! Because I had Special Ops training! Because Carmen back in Seville told you I was," she flung her hands up, "I don't know, the best!"

"We do."

Pepa stood and stepped forward threateningly. Carlos, all six feet of him, moved quickly to protect Lilia from the other woman. Pepa's eyes burned even brighter at the unspoken threat as Carlos stood straighter, but before Pepa could raise a fist to punch the man's face, her eyes widened as she finally processed Lilia's words.

"What?" she said softly, her arms dropping to her sides.

"I said, we _do_ expect you to be uprooted and accept our offer."

Her face slackened. "Why?"

Lilia looked her straight in the eye, her voice cold, "Because you have nothing to lose, Miranda-Castro."

The woman deflated considerably and what little cheeriness she had at the beginning, had fled. At that, Carlos gave Pepa a sad smile, stepping back as he took his seat beside Lilia, stooping over his partner protectively.

Lilia pulled out a non-descript folder from her bag and offered it to Pepa.

"Everything's there. San Antonio isn't the place for you, Miranda-Castro. And we need your expertise elsewhere."

Pepa laughed derisively, taking the file as she said, "Because I have nothing to lose."

Carlos shuffled uncomfortably and chose to look out the window as Lilia leaned forward, her body language suddenly open. Agent Lilia Renatus had been considered severe by most other people, but this business of theirs required a certain amount of compassion and a certain talent for firmness. Reluctantly, Lilia offered a consoling smile. "It was critical that we found someone who wouldn't hesitate."

Lilia admired the other woman's insight as Pepa said in a hard voice, "You aren't Interpol."

"Not exactly," Lilia said as she leaned back. "We have wider jurisdiction. The charter doesn't apply to us, at least not in the traditional sense. All the information we give you is on a need to know basis. We know you won't appreciate us withholding information, but the impulse, instinct, and initiative you've displayed in past endeavors will more than make up for it."

There was a long silence and within that strange space, rays of sunlight sought passage between the boughs of Pepa's garden. They seeped into the room, fell on the valleys of her face, and with cognizance, they revealed all the dark corners that had festered since Silvia Miranda-Castro's death. Pepa's hazel, green-tinted eyes flashed with momentary life before they crept back into the shade. The shadows would not recede, Lilia knew. Not anytime soon, anyway.

Lilia breathed deeply. "Well then..."

Pepa had sagged into her chair, her eyes quickly darting back and forth on the page as she tried to process the wealth of data. Lilia knew that the contents of the file would keep the woman occupied for hours.

The decision would also be quick, she knew.

Lilia said, "We expect to see you at the Madrid-Barajas Airport in three days. Your ticket has been provided for you in the file. As you can see, all of this is highly confidential."

"No kidding," Pepa muttered. Her eyes crinkled as she tried to read through and between huge lines of erased data. She pointed to the door, "Now leave."

Carlos raised a brow, seemingly torn between drinking the rest of his café con leche and reprimanding the woman for her callousness. But it was obvious, with the way Pepa had pulled up her legs to her chest and lay buried at the prospect of work, that Lilia and her partner had overstayed their welcome. Standing, Lilia was careful to keep their departure as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. The entire house was in mourning and it had lifted its gray veil for only a moment.

Once outside, Carlos stretched, muttering, "Do you think she'll take it?"

Lilia shrugged. "We need her. We've lost far too many people and we need someone who won't think, who'll simply do what's right." Lilia squinted as she looked out across the front lawn and at the gray Peugeot they had rented, parked inconspicuously on the street. "Her life was put on hold by the mafia and for that reason alone, she'll be willing to take risks. She won't hesitate. We'll see her at Madrid-Barajas, I'm sure of it."

* * *

TBC


End file.
